


got your back

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [44]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t think he likes you,” Robbie says during the second, when David returns to the bench flexing his hand, trying to shake off the sting of a slash.</p><p>“He doesn’t,” David says. “He’s never liked me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	got your back

Ever since Georgie joined the team, things have been kind of confusing. David knows it hasn’t even been two weeks, that things will settle down, especially considering Georgie joined them on the road, has yet to play a home game with the Capitals. Things always settle at home, when everyone can get a break from each other. It’s just — Robbie’s gone back to normal with David, mostly, except when Georgie’s around. And since the night Robbie yelled at David, Georgie always seems to be around.

More than one Capital has referred to Robbie and Georgie as the married couple, which David doesn’t understand, because they’re constantly fighting, more than David’s ever seen from two teammates. It’s married Capitals calling them that, too, and David doesn’t know why anyone would ever get married in that case, because Robbie seems to genuinely hate Georgie, and Georgie goes back and forth between being nice to Robbie and snapping back at him, which is just — it’s all very confusing. 

Obviously they have to play together, have stalls beside one another in the locker room, but David doesn’t know why they don’t just ignore one another the rest of the time, stay clear if possible. It certainly doesn’t make sense for them to be sitting on either side of David at dinner after a matinee game against the Rangers. David hopes they’ll be civil, or even ignore one another, because David likes them both individually, but when they’re together he feels uncomfortable. 

It seems fine at first: Robbie talks to David about the latest episode of Breaking Bad they’ve watched, Georgie talks to Matthews across the table, and then Georgie asks “You want it?” in the middle of one of Robbie’s sentences. David looks over at him, frowning.

“What?” Robbie asks snappishly.

“You’re staring, you want my veg?” Georgie asks. “Trade you for your broccoli.”

“Fine,” Robbie says. “Give me your plate.”

Georgie picks up his plate, hands it to David, and this is — weird, especially because Robbie’s scowling as he takes it.

“He eats like a child,” Robbie says to David. “Won’t eat his vegetables.”

“Broccoli is a vegetable,” Georgie says.

“Yeah, well, part of being an adult is eating more than one thing,” Robbie snaps.

“Islanders tomorrow,” David says quickly, because he thinks an argument is about to start, and he can’t walk away from it in the middle of dinner. 

“How’re you feeling about it?” Robbie asks, sounding normal again, “First time back, right?”

Considering the media after him and Oleg left, it’s not going to be a warm welcome, from either the team or the fans. “They’re probably going to boo me,” David says. Maybe not Oleg. They always seemed to like Oleg. David hopes they won’t: Oleg gave them a lot, he doesn’t deserve to be booed.

“Anyone goes after you—” Robbie says.

“Count on anyone but Lombardi,” Georgie says.

“You know what, fuck you, you don’t get any broccoli,” Robbie says, and hands Georgie his plate back through David.

Matthews raises his eyebrows at David, and David grimaces back at him.

“Any tips for Isles defence?” Matthews asks when Georgie opens his mouth, presumably to reply, and it’s a relief to be able to answer, especially because Georgie and Robbie are both quiet, paying attention, and even when David’s done they don’t go back to being rude to one another. Matthews pantomimes wiping his brow after a few minutes of silent, slightly uncomfortable eating, and David smiles tightly back. 

A few of the guys drift off to the bar after dinner, since it’s still early, and David hurries to sit beside Oleg when Salonen gives up his seat.

“Robbie and Georgie are being weird,” David says.

“I do not want to know,” Oleg says.

“You’re an A,” David says, frowning.

Oleg gives him an unimpressed look. “I do not want to know,” he repeats firmly.

“Maybe I should talk to Quincy,” David says.

“Quincy is aware,” Oleg says. “Stay out of it.”

“I can’t,” David complains. “They’re always around and they’re always fighting.”

“I do not want to know,” Oleg says, turning back to his meal.

“Fine,” David says, frowning, then goes to find Robbie, who’s left his own seat. He’s sitting in a booth in the corner — thankfully with Matthews instead of Georgie — the two of them watching the Celtics-Knicks game.

David doesn’t care much about basketball outside the Raptors, some Pistons games he watched so he knew who Jake was talking about, get a bit of a feeling for how awful they were, despite Jake’s protests, so he doesn’t mind turning his back to the TV, sitting across from them. He orders another beer when the waitress comes by, frowning at the dark brown drink she plunks on the table, but she’s already halfway across the bar before he can say anything, and he looks dubiously at it. Matthews wanders off to talk to Crane before David can force himself to take a sip, and when he finally does he regrets it. 

“Not a stout man, Chaps?” Robbie asks, sounding amused.

“I guess not,” David says.

“That’s not a stout, it’s a porter,” Georgie says, then sits down beside David, seeming oblivious to the way Robbie immediately starts glaring. “I think they’ve given up on serving the main table, I’ve had an empty pint for like twenty minutes.”

“You can have mine if you want?” David says. “I had a sip, but —”

“Thanks babe,” Georgie says, reaching over for it, and David feels himself go red immediately, knows there isn’t a chance Robbie and Georgie haven’t noticed. He thinks he should probably say something, that there’s some kind of response that’s considered correct, but he doesn’t know what it is, and he feels frozen, caught out and mortified. 

“Don’t worry,” Robbie says, sounding kind of angry. “You don’t have to jump back three feet and yell ‘no homo’. He’s not flirting, he just calls everyone babe.”

“Hey, I could be flirting,” Georgie says, then grins at David, takes a sip of David’s drink, and David didn’t think he could go any more red, but he might be, right now.

“Um,” David says, looking away from Georgie’s smile, “I have to talk to Kurmazov about something, could you please move?”

Georgie scoots out of the booth after a minute, and David keeps his head down, gets out without looking at him. He doesn’t end up walking over to Oleg, because he really doesn’t want to deal with the grin and the wink from him right now, that sign that everyone knows, everyone must know, that it’s an open secret and David’s stupid if he thinks the entire Capitals roster isn’t laughing behind their hands that David Chapman — that pretty boy, who _wouldn’t_ think he was gay? — honestly thinks he’s getting away with anything.

He goes to the bar, orders a beer he knows is safe, and then, after a second, a glass of scotch, remembering Kiro’s advice on shots. He looks back at Georgie and Robbie once he’s ordered, hoping they aren’t looking back. They aren’t: they’re arguing, which David is starting to find normal, but at least that doesn’t mean they’re looking over, laughing at him for not even being able to talk to Georgie without going red. They must notice. Everyone probably notices. Georgie was in the room that dubbed him pretty boy, and babe really doesn’t feel very far from that.

Georgie comes by a few minutes later, and David can feel himself going tense, tenser when Georgie’s fingers brush over his wrist as he sits down on the stool beside David’s.

“Sorry,” Georgie says. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

David almost says ‘you didn’t’, but he doesn’t think it’d be very believable. “It’s okay,” David says instead.

“Robbie’s right, I kind of say it to everyone, bad habit I picked up from my mom I guess,” Georgie says. “I’ll try not to call you that, but I might fuck up, so sorry in advance.”

“Okay,” David says. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Georgie pats the back of David’s hand, and David feels his neck go hot. 

Georgie pulls his hand back. “Don’t like being touched?” he asks. “I’m fucking up all over the place, here.”

“No, it’s,” David says. “It’s fine.”

“Sure?” Georgie asks.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” David says.

“Okay,” Georgie says. “I still owe you a drink, hey?”

“I’m going to head back after this one,” David says.

“Another time, then,” Georgie says.

“Yeah,” David says. “Another time.”

When David finishes his drinks he goes over to Robbie, nursing the end of his own beer. “Want to head back?” David asks.

“Sure, Celtics are a lost cause anyway,” Robbie says, “And you need to tell me the game plan for tomorrow.”

“I’m not the coach,” David says. “I don’t—”

“Robo-Chapman, relax and tell me everyone’s weaknesses,” Robbie says. “You’re like Terminator good at that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” David says, but does his best to give Robbie the information he needs to better defend tomorrow.

He sleeps well enough that night, but the next morning he wakes with a pit in his stomach. It doesn’t go away with breakfast, just worsens, especially once they’re at Barclays, which is familiar but not, David feeling like he’s going the wrong way when he walks to the Visitors’ room. Oleg doesn’t look any different than usual, but David wonders if he feels the same way, thinks he must, after all the years he spent — not here exactly, in this arena, but with this team, this management, these staff. Oleg greets a few people in the halls, but David keeps his head down, walks as straight a path he can to the room.

Everything’s backwards. The room is dingy, cramped, the way Visitors’ rooms usually are, though not as bad as some arenas he’s played in. David’s on the wrong side of the ice for warm ups. David’s wearing the wrong colours. He doesn’t regret leaving, he hasn’t regretted leaving even once, but everything’s — strange.

“You’re okay,” Oleg says to him in warm ups, hand landing on his back. It isn’t a question.

“Okay,” David agrees.

“Davey Chapman,” Benson calls from ten feet away, just when the knot in him starts to loosen. David wasn’t aware you could put so much mockery in someone’s name, but if anyone could manage it, it’d be Benson.

Oleg looks up. “I don’t want any bullshit, Benson,” he says, loud enough to carry, a few Capitals and Islanders looking over. David feels his cheeks burn.

“You’re not my captain any more, Kurmazov,” Benson says, but he doesn’t say anything else, skates back over towards the Islanders’ net.

“You’re okay?” Oleg asks, a question now. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” David mumbles.

“Like I said,” Oleg says. “I don’t want any bullshit. It is not about you.”

That’s obviously not true, since said bullshit was going to be directed his way. “Thanks,” David says, and Oleg grabs his shoulder, shakes lightly, before skating over to Quincy.

“Benson’s a loudmouth, but he’s harmless,” Georgie says, skating past a minute later, and David’s sure he is to Georgie. He’s seen what he’s like with Jake, and he imagines it’s no different with Georgie, who’s charismatic, friendly, popular, and who is the last person you’d get away with bullying, especially because he has half a foot on Benson. 

All David can think of is what Benson was like when they were ostensibly on the same side. He doesn’t really want to find out what he’s like when they’re opponents, but he doesn’t think he has much choice in that.

The game can’t start fast enough, and David spends the anthem wishing they’d dropped the puck already, wishing the game was _over_. He hates feeling like that, his typical anticipation twisted into dread. He doesn’t know what to expect. He knows not to expect anything good. This crowd hates him, and he knows that. It’s fine. He’s prepared. 

The Islanders fans don’t boo Oleg, which David is thankful for. It seems like it at the outset, considering every time Oleg’s on the ice there’s a healthy amount of disgust, but soon David realises the boos only start whenever the puck touches David’s stick, sometimes trailing on after he passes it off. He expected that, at least, he knew it was coming, he thought he had braced himself for it, told himself he had ignored worse before, but it’s so distracting, and David isn’t playing as well as he could, as well as he wants to.

It doesn’t help that everywhere David goes, Benson follows. Benson’s on the first line, which says a lot about the state of the Islanders, is explanation enough for their spot in the standings. It also means he’s on the ice when David is, and he always seems to be in the same place, getting in the way every time David’s trying to do something, like he’s been told to shadow David. Or like he decided to do that himself, which wouldn’t surprise David. 

In the first he trips David up twice without a call, brings his shoulder up on a hit that David shakes off, used to bigger opponents than Benson, commits so much interference David’s faintly astounded he hasn’t been called, and so is Quincy, judging from the number of conversations he’s had with the refs. 

“I don’t think he likes you,” Robbie says during the second, when David returns to the bench flexing his hand, trying to shake off the sting of a slash.

“He doesn’t,” David says. “He’s never liked me.”

“Benson’s a little prick,” Oleg says, and David stares at him, surprised.

“He always has been,” Oleg says, looking out at the ice and not at David.

“Yeah,” David says. 

“He wants to spend his time chasing you and losing the game, we let him,” Oleg says, chin tilting up to the Jumbotron, the shots at 18-7, the score 1-0. 

“Right,” David says, “You’re right.” 

The next shift against Benson’s line David reminds himself that Benson’s only hurting the Islanders, and Oleg punctuates that the shift after with a goal. There are a few scattered cheers when his name is announced, followed by boos from the entire arena when David’s mentioned for the assist.

“That’s a beautiful fucking sound,” Benson says, skating by the Capitals bench.

“So’s the goal horn,” Robbie says beside him. “And only one of them means shit, move along minus two.”

Benson’s smirk drops off his face and he opens his mouth, but one of the refs gets a hand on his jersey. 

“Not social hour, move it,” he says, and Benson goes back to his bench.

David looks down at the bench, tries to bite back a smile.

“Yeah, I’m proud of that one,” Robbie says. “Robbie Lombardi, word master.”

“You’re a dork,” David says, giving up on biting it back.

“Oh shit, I’m a _dork_ ,” Robbie says. “I lost my word master crown to the Canadian champ, David Dorkmaster.”

“Oh my god, shut up, Roberto,” Matthews groans. “You make worse jokes than my dad.”

“David likes them,” Robbie says, elbowing David in the side. “Right?”

“You chirp better than you joke,” David says.

“I am _defeated_ ,” Robbie says, and then ducks when Matthews grabs a towel and whips it at him.

“We do have a fucking hockey game to play, gentlemen,” Coach says, directly behind David, and he straightens up immediately, watches Robbie and Matthews do the same.

“I don’t know them,” Oleg says.

“Me either, Kurmazov,” Coach says. “Me either.”

They dominate through the second, go up 3-0, and in the third the Islanders break the shut out, but no one on the bench looks all that concerned. David doesn’t feel as relaxed as they look, but it was a deflection off Salonen’s skate, nothing that Lerner could have saved — even Crane wouldn’t have been able to save that — and a two goal cushion isn’t safe, but time’s on their side. 

Georgie buys them a nice bit of insurance with another goal on the powerplay, and there’s a roar from the crowd just as David’s getting back to the bench. David knows what that means without looking, but he does anyway, just to see who’s gotten into it.

“Is that fucking _Robbie_?” Georgie says behind him, sounding horrified.

It is Robbie, with a fistful of Benson’s jersey, which seems to be the only thing keeping Robbie up. Even that fails after a moment, and they go down, Benson on top of Robbie, Benson attempting to get another hit in when the linesmen step in.

They show a replay on the Jumbotron, and David watches it while the refs confer, before handing Robbie an additional two minutes for starting it — thankfully a roughing penalty and not instigation — and Oleg, groaning, has to climb right over the boards again to kill the penalty. They do kill it, because the Islanders power play was never good, and now it’s the opposite of a deterrent, since they kill their own momentum. When he gets out of the box, Robbie comes straight to the bench with a towel over his nose, shoulders his way in between David and Georgie. 

“How’d I do?” he asks, dropping the towel into his lap. Objectively, Benson definitively won the fight. Robbie got maybe one good punch in, took at least five, and went down under Benson in fifteen seconds. Robbie’s nose is still bleeding sluggishly, and Benson looks like he doesn’t have a mark on him. 

“You did really well,” David says. Georgie snorts, but he doesn’t argue, which is good, considering Robbie’s already gotten into one fight today.

“Told you if anyone went after you I had your back,” Robbie says.

“Did he—” David starts. He doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer, if Benson’s been saying the things he always said to David, if he’s implied — if Robbie thinks —

“You didn’t have to do that,” David says instead.

“Enh, he was getting on my nerves,” Robbie says, shrugging, then tilting his head back so the trainer can get at his nose. “Had to get into my first fight eventually, I think Quincy was taking fucking bets.”

“For once in your life please shut up and let me do my job, Lombardi,” the trainer says.

“I had one hundred bucks on it being against Boston, fuck you, Lombardi,” Matthews says.

“Thanks, Robbie,” David says.

“Hey, any time, right?” Robbie says. “Except not any time soon, my nose hurts like a fucking bitch right now.”

“Lom _bardi_ ,” the trainer says.

“Sorry,” Robbie says. 

David shucks his right glove, holds out his hand in a fist, and Robbie grins when he notices.

“They’re non-optional for being a bro, right?” David asks.

“Damn straight, Chaps,” Robbie says, and bumps his fist against David’s while the trainer glares at both of them.


End file.
